


Something is Very Wrong

by threecee



Series: Exit Wounds [5]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cliffhangers, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 07:17:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17055551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threecee/pseuds/threecee
Summary: Napoleon finds Illya's apartment empty.





	Something is Very Wrong

After leaving UNCLE headquarters, I just went home and crawled into a bottle. Waste of good Scotch to chug it out of the bottle, but I didn’t care. My whole life is a waste. I’m supposed to be making the world safer, a better world for children to grow up in. Well, little Michael won’t grow up in a better world because I killed him.

I should have been more careful about the reconnaissance, known who the players on the other side were, known if there were any Innocents in there.

I should have picked up the gun the moment it dropped from the dead woman’s hands.

I should have checked the lab more carefully and found the child before he found the gun.

I shouldn’t have turned around to ask Illya if he was done setting the explosives. It was just an excuse to look at Illya. I endangered both the mission and Illya.

Woke up this afternoon on the living room floor. Felt like, well, like someone who drank himself under the table. After an Alka-Seltzer and a couple cups of black coffee, I remembered why I had gotten drunk. Decided to get drunk again, but I was out of liquor.  So, I headed out to the nearest liquor store.

I ended up walking instead. No particular direction. As often happens when I don’t have any place to go, I found myself heading for Illya’s apartment. We would talk over the mission like we always do when it is a bad one. Or maybe we would just get drunk together. I could at least check on him to see he was okay, even if he wasn’t in the mood for company.

No one answered his front doorbell. I tried the bell again, then used my key to let myself in. As usual, I barely got one foot inside before Illya’s landlady, Mrs. Gavrilyuk, popped out of her ground-floor apartment. Today she was wearing a red and purple plaid dress that clashed with her bright orange hair. I’ve never known if she is color-blind or just has the most atrocious taste I’ve ever seen. Her little Jack Russell terror, ah, terrier, bounded out too and began frisking around my ankles. Since I’m well-known here as Nero Fabbro, her tenant Illya Kuznetsov’s friend and co-worker, I was allowed to go on up after a cordial exchange of greetings.

Illya didn’t answer my coded knock. After the third try, I used my key again. Before opening the door, I called, “I’m coming in! Ollie, ollie, oxen free!” (This recognition phrase is embarrassing, but as I told Illya, no enemy in his right mind would ever think of it.) No response. The “away” security setting was on and there was no sign of Illya.

I did a quick visual sweep first, and noticed his little Russian lacquer box was gone from his bureau. There were three business sized envelopes in its place. One addressed to me as Nero Fabbro. One addressed to Mr. Waverly with what felt like a communicator pen inside. One addressed to his landlady, with what might have been a wad of paper or cash. This did not look good.

Nevertheless, I did a proper security sweep of the apartment, bed-sit, lavatory, shower stall, closet, and kitchen. All in order. Minimal food in the kitchen, full bottle of vodka in the freezer. No sign of any surveillance equipment or booby-traps. No sign of any struggle.

The kitchen window was partially closed, but not latched. I opened it and climbed up onto the sink to lean out. I knew there was a strong steel bar, painted black, bolted just above the window. This enabled someone as acrobatic as Illya to flip himself from windowsill to roof and back. He had explained that he then had three different routes over the adjoining roofs, trees, fences, telephone poles, and dumpsters, to reach ground level well away from any surveillance. He told me he often goes in and out that way just for the exercise. Mad Russian.

I scrounged around a little more. Aside from the Russian box, there wasn’t much missing. Just his knapsack with the clothes and equipment he would take for a mission that included hiking or cat burglary. Plus, every weapon he owns, which includes a fair few that aren’t U.N.C.L.E. issue.

Something was very wrong.

My hands were shaking a little as I sat down in Illya’s only comfortable chair and opened the envelope addressed to me.

**Author's Note:**

> Chronologically, this comes before "In the Wind" but I think this way increases the suspense. (Also I hadn't thought of this first. I have no idea where this story is going, I'm just along for the ride.)


End file.
